Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1) (12 page)

Felmid was advancing again.
Gwydion wanted to flee, but the adrenaline made him want to finish the job as
well. He backed up so that he was against a tree, and fended off several
attacks. He noticed Dorath standing off to the side, looking a bit bored with
the whole affair. It made his blood even hotter.

He reacted by fighting more
defensively, trying to draw the men into making a mistake. When Dorath said, “Come
on, he’s just a boy,” Gwydion knew that he had them.

The unnamed bandit fell first,
from a lightning slash from Gwydion’s reversed sword that caught him across the
face. He fell to the ground screaming and cursing. Gwydion turned his full
wrath on Felmid, using both swords in a vicious attack. He soon struck an
unprotected spot on his shoulder, and despite Felmid’s pleas, followed it with
a death blow to the heart.

The unnamed bandit was crawling
towards Dorath, who looked on him with disgust. “Please, Dorath, help me!” the
man cried.

“Gladly,” Dorath said. He drew
his sword, a heavy blade nearly the size of a claymore, and with a single chop,
severed the man’s head from his shoulders.

“I’m not sure whether to curse
you or thank you, boy,” he said, wiping the big blade on the dead man’s cloak.
“You’ve cost me several good men, but then again, I don’t have to worry about
splitting the gold we’ve gathered with them, either. Or about splitting the
gold I’m going to get from your ransom, either.”

Gwydion was breathing hard,
swallowing bile from the stench of blood. “You seem awfully sure about
catching me, considering that I’ve just killed all your men.”

“Of course I do. Because I’m
pretty sure I know what will make you lay down your weapons.” He put one heavy
boot on the harp case.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Gwydion
said.

“Wouldn’t I?” Dorath asked. “I
have seen you play. You look like a little girl with her first crush. I’ll
bet this harp means more to you than your title. Maybe more than your life.”
He leaned on the case, and Gwydion could hear the leather creak against the
strain.

Gwydion laid down the swords. “You
may be right about that,” he said.

Dorath grinned, and scooped up
the harp case, slinging it onto his back. “Gods, that was easier than I
expected,” he said. “And I suppose I can get you to agree not shapeshift after
I tie you up, right?”

Gwydion’s shoulders slumped. “I
promise,” he said.

Dorath came up and kicked the
swords away. Towering over Gwydion, he said “I was beginning to think you were
going to be a challenge, did you know that?”

“You have underestimated me so
far,” Gwydion said.

“But I’ve got your precious
harp, and your promise. And you idiots with your honor keep your word. I know
I didn’t underestimate that about you.”

“True,” Gwydion said. “But I
didn’t promise not to shapeshift
before
you
tied me up.” He waited for just a moment to see Dorath’s reaction, and then
turned into a bear.

Dorath went from looking down
at an abject prisoner to looking up into a growling face. He turned to run,
but Gwydion grabbed the harp case and pulled him back. Dorath slipped out of
the straps and scrambled away. Gwydion set the harp down gently and gave
chase.

His new shape felt lumbering,
but he covered ground quickly, and tripped up the bandit with one swipe of his
paw. Dorath tried to draw his sword as he fell, but couldn’t get it out of the
scabbard before Gwydion reared up and hit him again, knocking his shoulder out
of joint with a sickening crunch.

Dorath fell to his knees. “Mercy,”
he said. “I beg of you.”

Gwydion hesitated, and Dorath
came up with a dagger, which he plunged into Gwydion’s side. Gwydion roared in
rage and cuffed him away, leaving deep gouges in his leather vest. Dorath
tried to charge again, and Gwydion fell on top of him, pinning him with the
dagger underneath and crushing his dislocated shoulder. Dorath screamed and
squirmed, trying to escape. Gwydion bit down once, snapping his neck in
powerful jaws.

He rolled off the bandit and
shifted back to his human form. Holding the wound in his side closed, he
staggered over to his harp, cradling it as best he could. “Uncle! Help me!” he
cried.

A strong wind jumped up and
shrieked through the forest. The pain from his wound began to make his vision
blur, but he saw the ghost form of his uncle appear in front of him. “Nephew!
What has happened here?”

“Bandits,” Gwydion said through
gritted teeth. “I killed them all, but I am injured. Can you help me?”

“Of course.”

Gwydion felt the world shift
beneath him, and he was momentarily in a world that was not Glencairck, but
there was another shift, and he was in the tower. He heard Math calling for
the physician and for attendants to help him. The tower felt so hot after the
forest, but he could not move even to take off his heavy clothes.

Hands were helping him, prying
the harp away, stripping him and laying him flat. Blethin, the physician, was
probing his side with sure fingers, but each touch felt like fire. “It’s not
too bad,” he said to Math. “A bit deep, and there has been some blood loss,
obviously. I think we can stitch him up, and he’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Would you oversee his care?”
Math said.

“As my lord wishes,” Blethin
said. “Alright lads, get him on the blanket. Gently, gently. Now everyone
lift.”

Gwydion felt himself rise into
the air, and promptly blacked out.

Math let Gwydion have a few
days of uninterrupted rest. Gil came to see him though, and marveled at
Gwydion’s adventures. The shapeshifting didn’t interest him, but he wanted to
hear about the bandits over and over. When Math summoned him to the tower
several days later, Gwydion figured his uncle had heard the story nearly as many
times as he had told it, and he was right. But Math had a question that Gil
had never thought to ask.

“Why didn’t you just flee when
you had the chance?”

Gwydion had spent plenty of
hours asking himself that very question. “I think that I felt responsible for
taking care of the problem.”

“Why?”

“I am your heir apparent. They
knew it, I knew it, but even more, any other people that they had robbed or
killed would have known it, too. And even though those victims may never have
known that I ran away, the robbers would have. They didn’t need any more
encouragement.”

Math smiled. “Very good,
nephew. You have finally shown signs of duty, and honor.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Gwydion
said with a bow.

“There is just one thing left
to ask: are you comfortable in your own skin again?”

Once again, Gwydion had spent
lots of time asking himself the same thing. “I have taken many forms now,” he
said. “Most I took with plenty of forethought, but I have also practiced the
shift itself, moving from skin to skin. And when the time came, I was able to
take a new form, one that I had not tried before, without any thought of
whether it was safe, or whether I might lose myself. Because I knew who I was,
and I knew, finally, that I was in control.”

“Would you always shapeshift in
a battle?”

“Hardly ever,” Gwydion said. “It
would reveal too much of my power, and make the general populace trust me even
less.”

“Excellent reasoning, nephew.”
Math looked through his wide windows, where the winds swirled the fat flakes of
a late snowfall, but did not bring them into the tower. He said, “I have a new
task for you.”

“Yes, uncle?”

“I want you to tour the caer.
Meet the people that you will be lord of one day, and learn of their cares and
concerns.”

Gwydion glanced out at the
snow. “It hardly seems the right time.”

“I want you to leave after
Beltain,” Math said. “You will be my full heir then, the Tanist of Gwynedd. I
expect you to be ready to fulfill your duties as such.”

“Of course,” Gwydion said.

“Spend your time reading about
our land in the library. Bethyl will guide you.”

“Thank you.”

“And take your harp; you will
find that it will open doors that your rank will not.”

After he had left the tower,
Goewin said, “I never thought I would miss the rogue in him.”

Math smiled. “He is dealing
will quite a bit right now. He will be back to himself soon enough.”

Goewin sighed, “And I suppose I
will miss this part of him when it does.”

“My dear,” Math said, “Your
wisdom is extraordinary.”

“My lord is too kind,” she
said, blushing.

They sat awhile in silence,
until Math said, “Who would you trust more, the rogue Gwydion or the serious
young man that he seems to be now?”

“Neither,” Goewin said. “I
still think he’s up to something, whether he’s staying silent or using his
charm.”

“Perhaps that is the problem,”
Math said. “Everyone has an opinion of him already, and it seems to be set no
matter how he changes.”